


that was then (and we are now)

by girl0nfire



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, all the cybernetic arm feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe they’re just getting better; maybe they’re shedding old skins and making themselves comfortable in new ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that was then (and we are now)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cold Hands & Warm Hearts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/786966) by [flash0flight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flash0flight/pseuds/flash0flight). 



> Remix of flash0flight's "Cold Hands and Warm Hearts"; it's always a pleasure playing with her!

Fighting is still easier than talking.

And sparring with Steve, it’s familiar in the ways that matter; he still lifts his shoulder too high on his right hooks, old force of a bad habit that Bucky never could quite break him of. But it doesn’t matter now, he’s too fast and he’s too clean and even if it’s a tell, there aren’t many people facing down that hit that’ll see it coming. Not like Bucky does.

They’re different now, of course they are. It’s like every time they meet they’re different, because they’re evolution, outside of time and growing with it anyway, and something’s changed every time they meet. Maybe they’re just getting better; maybe they’re shedding old skins and making themselves comfortable in new ones.

It sounds easier than it is. Bucky knows that Steve feels the same.

And fighting is still easier than talking. 

Bucky dodges another right hook, he sees it coming clear as day, but the movement puts him off-balance with just enough time to twist back and seize Steve by the wrist, a quick snap and it’s almost too simple to drag Steve down to the mat. It’s almost too simple to hover a hand (the real one, always the real one) over his throat, not even a threat but a challenge, maybe a promise, and give in, just a little, settling a bit more of his weight on Steve while Bucky hovers above, straddling Steve’s hips.

This is easier, too. Bucky licks his lips, watching Steve’s face for a moment, the same face, the same eyes he’s seen in two different bodies and in a hundred different nightmares, and when he lifts his hand away from Steve’s throat, the round complete, he’s almost ready to lean in, end the match, but the sight of his hold on Steve’s wrist, loose against his pale skin while Bucky’s hand (no, not real, how could he, no) presses it against the mat.

(And you are not the Winter Soldier and the Winter Soldier is not you but everything they’ve told you doesn’t matter when there’s silver fingers curling around delicate flesh and somewhere in 1956 the French Defense Minister’s neck is cracking beneath these same fingers and it’s hot in here, too hot and humid like that spring in Algeria.)

Steve’s lips curl into a breathless smile and Bucky knows there’s a joke to be made, something to lighten the tightness in his chest but that doesn’t stop him from jerking his hand back from Steve’s wrist like he’s been burned, like he’s just held a gun to his best friend’s head and that’s not how this is supposed to go.

Fighting is supposed to be easier, it’s easier because it’s really all he knows now and that doesn’t make it right, it doesn’t make it what he wants because hurting Steve is the very last thing he’d do. They couldn’t make him do it. He won’t do it.

Bucky’s got a few tells of his own, left hand to right wrist, pressure sensors picking up the dull thud of a thready pulse as he backs away, trying to keep the wildness out of his eyes. He needs a shower, he needs to… take a step back, he can’t focus when everything’s mixing together like it is now, like it does every time he watches that hand mark pale flesh and everything tunnels red in his mind.

Later, maybe, there’ll be time for the conversation Bucky can see Steve working out in his head, when they’re tangled together again in Steve’s bed, the only safe place where they both can sleep peacefully (or as close as they can, really and sometimes it’s not that close) but the elevator doors are already closing and it’s too late for him to try on a smile.

+

The walls of the elevator car reflect Bucky’s image back to him four more times than he wants to see it, and his hair’s still too long and the sleeves of his shirt aren’t long enough, and beneath the fluorescent lights everything’s too-bright and there’s no place to hide.

By the time Bucky makes his way to Steve’s floor, pressing the door open with spread fingers and hoping that he’s asleep, it’s almost midnight. But Steve’s awake, of course he is, and his worry turns to a cautious smile when Bucky pulls the door closed again, slipping the lock and crossing the room and it’s already familiar again, even if stripping off his t-shirt still feels like telling a lie.

Bucky’s dog tags join Steve’s on the nightstand, Steve’s pair still rusted around the edges because like him, they haven’t changed for decades and that stands for something, they look old and battered and worn-in next to Bucky’s shining ones, the machine-pressed letters still silver on the inside and brand new, a reminder that he’s out-of-place here, too.

Steve slips a hand around Bucky’s chest, warm fingers splayed along the seam where metal meets skin and Bucky says, “I’m okay, alright?” and what he means is _maybe I will be, but not right now_.

(And you don’t worry that Steve’s afraid of you, you worry that he isn’t, because Steve’s never had a spectacular sense of self-preservation and he pulls you closer like he’s not sleeping next to a weapon, or maybe like he just doesn’t care.)

So instead Bucky lifts Steve’s hand away, away from cold metal warming beneath his touch and twines their fingers together, letting his hand (the real one, still the real one) fit snugly with Steve’s, drawing aimless patterns over the skin of Steve’s palm. Because this he can feel, he can press his thumb to Steve’s wrist and trace the rhythm of his pulse over the web of veins that lie tangled there, he can tell himself this is real. He tugs on Steve’s hand, holding it tightly against his belly as they move to fit more closely together, and Bucky lets sleep take him to the steady sound of Steve’s breathing (and it’s even, it never used to be and he’s still not sure of it) and he’s not afraid.

+

(And you are not the Winter Soldier and the Winter Soldier is not you but everything you know is wrong, they told you that you did it, that you killed him and it’s your fault your fault and you look at the arm they say is yours and it must be true because you can tear metal and you can best the Americans’ best and you could haul one man over the edge of a train as easy as breathing and so it must be true.)

+

Bucky’s body doesn’t even warn him anymore before it drags him out of sleep, before it wakes him with a start that rattles in his bones, and he’s up and across the room before his heart’s had time to tell him it was all another dream. There’s only one window in Steve’s bedroom, if you could call it a window rather than a wall, but it’s got a view of a city that’s another almost-familiar thing and watching the streets pulse helps slow Bucky’s breathing down.

He wraps his hand along the seam of his shoulder, old force of a bad habit, fingers heavy against a star that means more and less every day and Bucky knows what’s not real, now. He knows it, but that’s not the problem; the problem’s living with what is, with the echoes of Algeria 1956 and Mexico City 1957, other cities and other times, all tied together like a string around a silver finger so he can’t forget. The problem is waking from nightmares half-expecting blood to still be drying on his hands, and when he looks, having a weapon staring back at him.

It’s only a few minutes before Steve’s awake, too, crossing the room to meet Bucky and pulling him close, pressing kisses to Bucky’s face like he doesn’t care, like it doesn’t matter that Bucky carries the weight of everything hanging from his left shoulder joint like an albatross, like he doesn’t have to wear the evidence of his new self outside for everyone to see. Steve reaches for Bucky’s arm, and it’s not real, Bucky can’t feel it, the pressure sensors can’t make up for the sensation of the callouses from the shield scraping along Bucky’s skin and it’s not enough, not _real_ enough, and Bucky says, “Please don’t.”

And Bucky remembers, he’s never said no to Steve, he can’t, but there’s something different, now, _he’s_ different and he brings a hand up to grip Steve’s hip (still the real one, if he ignores it maybe it will just go away) and rests his forehead against Steve’s shoulder.

(And you don’t worry that he’ll touch it, you worry that he will and that it won’t mean anything, that he’ll brush soft fingertips over smooth metal and he won’t understand just how scared you are even if you don’t know how to say it.)

Except Steve takes it in stride, of course he does, like always, like everything, and lifts silver fingers to hesitant lips and Bucky can’t stop his hand from tensing on Steve’s hip, fingertips digging in because this isn’t how it works. Bucky doesn’t… he doesn’t know yet, where he fits into his own mind again and he doesn’t know just what parts of him make up the man he wants to be and he doesn’t know what separates him from the weapon except he can feel Steve pressing a kiss to his palm, can feel the pressure of their fingers slotting together like the tumblers of a long-forgotten lock and it feels real.

It’s stupid, Steve has to understand how it feels to be a prisoner inside your own body but Bucky’s never been too good with words so even if he wanted to he couldn’t ask, so instead he slips his hand from Steve’s and takes a deep breath, bringing body-warm metal fingertips to trace along the hollow of Steve’s jaw, the arc of his cheekbone, pressing just hard enough to sense it. And this he remembers, how it’s always been and always will be, Steve’s too damn patient for his own good and for both of their sakes, Bucky’s more thankful now then ever.

There’s something to be said about the journey, Bucky supposes, about the shedding of skins and the too-raw feeling of stepping out onto the other side. Maybe that’s what he’s doing now, pushing his way out, stripping something away, pushing back.

He can’t feel Steve’s pulse beneath his hand but he can still hear the roughness that catches in his breaths, he can still feel the heat of Steve’s skin beneath his other hand and it’s enough. It can be enough. Bucky wraps careful silver fingers around the back of Steve’s neck, pulling him in and it’s not even a promise, just another question, but when Steve tips forward and meets him halfway he’s already got an answer. Steve always had the answers, Bucky just needed to shut up long enough to listen.

Bucky kisses Steve like he’s trying to make sure he’s real, like he doesn’t believe it, like Steve’ll disappear if Bucky lets go. He licks his way into Steve’s mouth and holds him close, too close and closer, and when Steve’s fingers find the seam of his shoulder again the last of the old finally begins to fall away, leaving behind nothing but a terrifying, almost-familiar new.


End file.
